


In your eyes, I found mine

by Illionite



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: First Kiss, Iwaizumi is kind of an artist, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oikawa wants to be drawn, There is a summer storm, Very Light Angst With A Happy Ending (it's iwaoi what do you expect)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 13:42:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9126142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Illionite/pseuds/Illionite
Summary: “Sit still, dumbass,” Hajime grumbles, erasing yet another line meant to be the bridge of Oikawa’s nose.“But, Iwa-chan, you’re taking way too long!” said boy whines. Still, he obliges, and straightens up once again.“You’re the one who wanted me to draw you, now deal with the consequences.”AKA: In which Oikawa wants to be drawn by Iwaizumi and in the meantime, they get some things sorted out.





	

**Author's Note:**

> *Drops this after months of inactivity* uhh, hi?
> 
> Greatly inspired by this lovely pic!!! http://sleep-pose.tumblr.com/post/139751858200/when-it-rains-they-find-other-ways-to-pass-the

“Sit still, dumbass,” Hajime grumbles, erasing yet another line meant to be the bridge of Oikawa’s nose. 

“But, Iwa-chan, you’re taking way too long!” said boy whines. Still, he obliges, and straightens up once again. 

“You’re the one who wanted me to draw you, now deal with the consequences.”

Setting the pencil to the paper, Hajime once again attempts to capture the subtle slope of Oikawa’s nose. He starts out small, the lines eventually blending into a shape that Hajime is satisfied with. He smiles, pleased, and lifts his gaze to compare it to the original.

Hajime starts when his eyes catch Oikawa’s expression, all soft lines and relaxed angles, eyes intent on him. For a second, Hajime wishes he could start his drawing all over again, erase the confident Oikawa captured by his graphite and preserve the unguarded one. 

“Everything all right, Iwa-chan?” Oikawa asks, a tint of amusement coloring his voice. 

“Sure,” Hajime mumbles, eyes dropping once again to the likeness of Oikawa resting on his lap. He doesn’t have to look in a mirror to know the tips of his ears are burning red, the new haircut he got not too long ago doing nothing to hide it. 

Hajime can _feel_ Oikawa’s smirk. 

The don’t speak for a long while after that, Hajime etching line after line into his sketchbook, the soft sounds of the summer storm raging around the veranda where they are sat a nice background for his concentration. 

Every once in a while, he glances at Oikawa, probably more than he should, as he was aware of the fact that he couldn’t mask all of them as needed for his reference. Oikawa feigns ignorance, most of the times. The ones that he decides to not ignore force Hajime’s head down again, the weight of the slight smirk enough for Hajime’s control to disappear under the troubled waters of his heart. 

For the most part, however, Oikawa appears lost in thought, fingers loose over the surface of the worn and dirty volleyball they were supposed to play with before the storm started. They twitch every once in a while, barely noticeable to someone not used to Oikawa’s mannerisms, a tell-tale sign that something is bothering him. 

Hajime stares down to his drawing, to the mess of lines that will eventually come to define Oikawa’s fluffy locks, to the sharp line that tries to resemble the edge of Oikawa’s jaw, to the curves that form his lips, slightly parted in anticipation. 

Hajime stops at that, conscious that parted lips are something that is usually not present whenever Oikawa is facing down rivals or about to execute a jump serve. For a second, he wonders if his feelings got the best of him, urging him to draw some of the vulnerability hidden within the confident smile of his best friend. 

He decides, that, for the moment, it doesn’t matter. 

Hajime’s eyes travel upwards, wanting to shake the thoughts out of his head. With the fingers of the hand holding the pencil he brushes the spot just beneath the shaded bangs that cover Oikawa’s forehead. 

Hajime (on the rare occasion that he does draw people) always draws the eyes last. It’s the most taxing part for him, and he never gets them right on the first try. He’s got to be careful, conscious of the fact that the eyes can make or break the drawing, and that it is especially true in Oikawa’s case. 

Hajime finishes lining the hair, and shades it according to the weak light shining on it through the storm clouds. 

Hajime takes a deep breath, grip light on the pencil, set just above the birth of the nose in his drawing. He lifts his eyes, only to find Oikawa, lips parted, gaze lost on some point in the sky. His eyes are large and unfocused, his fingers lay still against the battered yellow and blue of the volleyball and if Hajime didn’t know any better, he’d say Oikawa almost looks… wistful.  

A short gasp escapes Hajime’s lips, but it is unfortunately not low enough for it to go undetected. 

The vision in front of him shatters, and Oikawa turns to face him, face behind a thin mask. 

“Done, Iwa-chan?” Oikawa questions, voice light, face smiling, miles apart of the creature that had been sitting in front of him mere seconds ago. It is not his flirty, fake smile, Hajime notes, but it is also not the real one. This type belongs in the concealing subtype of smiles. Hajime’s eyes narrow, intent in deciphering the mystery behind the gesture, but the hardened gaze Oikawa directs his way speaks of a zealously guarded secret that is best left alone. For now, at least. 

“No,” he answers, voice gruff from disuse. “Still got the eyes left.”

He doesn’t say “your”, and he knows, from the slight twitch of his fingers, that Oikawa notices it. 

“Hmm…” Oikawa mumbles, noncommittally. “You always did have trouble with those.”

It’s a remark meant to help him along, Hajime knows, but instead, all that comes to mind is the last time he had tried to draw Oikawa. 

It had been a day much like this, with clouds drenching the sky and mothers forbidding them from playing outside. Oikawa had pouted endlessly, trying to appeal to his own mother, then Hajime’s and ultimately failing on both accounts. Hajime had accepted his destiny in a much more modest way, and had gone to fetch some games for them to play. 

They had, once again, sat at this very veranda. Hajime’s back had been to the wall, while Oikawa’s had been to one of the support beams holding it strong over their heads. 

Ever impatient, Oikawa had been the one to swat the games aside and ask Hajime to draw him. Hajime had tried to brush him off, saying he had absolutely no experience in drawing people, that the only thing he ever drew were bugs and leaves, but Oikawa (Tooru, as he’d called him at the time) had, as usual, paid him no heed. 

It had ended with Hajime’s sketchbook gripped tightly on his lap, brows furrowed into a scowl and with Oikawa sporting a beaming smile, volleyball clutched excitedly between his fingers. 

And again, Hajime had only got as far as the eyes before stopping, frustrated, unable to continue.

Oikawa had tried to get him to carry on, had endlessly praised the way ten year old Hajime had managed to capture him in paper, but it had been useless. The only thing Oikawa achieved was preventing Hajime from ripping the drawing to shreds. 

They had not spoken of it again, and so the drawing had lain, dormant and yet ever-present, in Hajime’s mind. 

Until now. 

This time, Hajime tries, he can honestly say that he really does. He tries to capture the inherent beauty trapped in Oikawa’s brown irises, tries to capture the multiple facets that make up the complex boy that is his best friend. 

And yet, Hajime realizes, as he erases line after line, that it is rather complicated to simplify that enough to capture it with a few strokes. 

Oikawa, ever observant, notices the moment Hajime’s shoulders tense. 

“Everything all right, Iwa-chan?” he asks, mirroring his question from before. 

Hajime comes face to face with a tilted face, eyes twinkling with an inquiry. 

Complicated indeed. 

“No,” he breathes. “No, it’s not.”

He closes the sketchbook and sets it aside. A second later his eyes slide shut. 

Why is it that Oikawa’s eyes never seem to find their way onto the pages of his sketchbook? Everyone else’s do, sooner or later, with more or less difficulty. And yet Oikawa’s, this gorgeous, complex, astonishing boy’s, never do? 

A pang goes through his heart, and his expression contorts into one that normally never leaves the confines of his bedroom when its covered with the gentle blanket of darkness. 

“Iwa-chan?” comes Oikawa’s concerned voice, right next to his face. 

“I can’t do this,” Hajime mutters, standing up abruptly and promptly making Oikawa fall back in surprise. 

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa repeats, the worry in his voice a colour that Hajime doesn’t want on his palette. 

Hajime skips over the railing of the veranda in one fluid movement, landing in a crouch on the soaked grass below. 

And he runs. 

Blind in the raging storm, Hajime runs, heading for the small forest behind his house until he stops, having found the tree he was looking for. He is about to climb it when a hand around his forearm cuts off his momentum. 

Really, it’s no wonder he would follow. Oikawa, if anything, is endlessly loyal. 

Hajime feels the breath leave his lungs as the hand forces him to turn around. 

Oikawa has always been beautiful, Hajime knows this. He also knows it’s not just him that thinks it, if the rest of the world is someone to go by. 

Even now, dripping wet, with hair in his eyes (his infinitely complex, beautiful eyes), and cheeks flushed from the run, Oikawa is capable of stealing Hajime’s breath. 

“Talk to me,” the taller boy pleads after he has regained his breath. “Talk to me, Iwa-chan, this isn’t like you.”

Of course it isn’t. Hajime knows this. The expert at playing pretend, at deflecting, at hiding has always been Oikawa, while the expert at honesty, at not getting distracted, at finding has always been Hajime. 

Hajime wonders when their roles reversed. When he started keeping secrets from his best friend, instead of trying to coax them out of the other boy. 

Hajime lifts his head, resting it against the trunk of the tree, wondering if the torrential rain is enough to hide his tears. 

He knows, from the soft “Hajime” uttered by Oikawa, that it isn’t. 

He hasn’t heard that name in years. It adds another painful twist to his heart. 

There are fingers on his face, gently brushing the tears away. Hajime wonders how Oikawa can tell them apart. 

“Tell me,” a breath, barely there. “Tell me what’s bothering you, Hajime.”

A wet, bitter laugh. 

“As if you didn’t know already,” Hajime’s breath catches, his courage dwindling until there’s only enough for one more word. “Tooru.”

And Hajime knows, in that very moment, that those words are true, that Oikawa _knows_ , in that way Oikawa always seems to do. 

Hajime had always thought that he would never be ready to face this moment. And he had always been wrong. 

There are lips on his, and Hajime wonders if he had included gentleness in the ever-growing list of complexities that make up Oikawa Tooru, his best friend, the one he loves. 

Oikawa kisses him like he is something precious, like he is something he can’t afford to live without. Hajime kisses back with the same thoughts in mind, hands cradling whatever of Oikawa’s face he can get. 

“Dumbass,” Oikawa says when they part, and he lets out a small laugh at having used Hajime’s trademark insult. Hajime quickly presses his lips against Oikawa’s again, intent on finding out how that laugh tastes. He discovers it is sweeter than he could have ever imagined. 

“I can’t believe you were worried about that,” Oikawa whispers against his lips, cold from the rain, but still soft. 

“What can I say?” Hajime answers in kind, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. “I guess it’s not only one of us that’s an idiot.”

Hajime muffles Oikawa’s indignant squeak with a kiss, open-mouthed and wanting, tired of waiting for something that was already his to begin with. 

 

———————————————————————————————————————————

 

There’s an envelope on his desk.  

That’s the first thing Tooru notices when he enters his room. 

He drops his bags, and hangs his ‘Aoba Johsai VBC’ jacket on the back of his chair before approaching it, curiosity thrumming in his veins. 

With care, he rips open the lid, and out tumbles a single sheet of paper. Tooru catches it before it can fall back onto his desk, but very nearly has to catch it again when, out of surprise, he jolts. 

Staring at him from the simple white paper is a rendering of him. 

His hair is tousled into that artful mess that Iwa-chan likes to tangle his fingers into. His head is tilted to the side, a contemplative question held in the gesture. His lips follow along the questioning atmosphere with a soft part, as though mesmerized by something. 

But the more impressive part is, without a doubt, the eyes. Tooru had never known his eyes could look like this, defiant and expectant, but, at the same time, wide and vulnerable. 

Tooru gently traces the lines with the very tips of his fingers, careful not to smudge away the graphite. There is care traced into those strokes, and Tooru feels warm all over, blanketed in feelings. 

Tooru turns the sheet over and a quick message comes to focus. 

 

_‘Finally managed to get the eyes right.’_

 

And, really, Tooru couldn’t have hoped for anything better. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for sticking with me until the end!  
> It's been a rough year for me, especially these last few months, so finally managing to write something, and especially before the new year, is greatly fulfilling to me!!  
> Now, I would like to wish everyone a happy 2017 and a lovely new year's eve!! Thank you for everything!!!


End file.
